


Before the Storm

by SomewhereApart



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Missing Year (Once Upon a Time)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 20:26:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13531902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhereApart/pseuds/SomewhereApart
Summary: As Zelena’s curse begins to take hold, Regina realizes she wants to be with Robin before the curse makes them strangers again.





	Before the Storm

Regina watches the curse cloud billow and rise, lurid green tainting her deep, familiar purple and feels a panicked pang of regret that wears the name Robin. She glances at Snow and David, still embracing on the palace floor, but safe for now, and mutters, “I have to…” before taking off without an excuse.

He’s nearby - he must be - it seems he always is. Always when she doesn’t want him he is there, giving her that look, searching her, trying to see more than he should. He’s always seen too much of her – ever since that night, months ago, when he happened upon her in a moment of weakness and was his usual charming, persistent self, and she hadn’t known yet, who he was, what he was, and so she’d let him disarm her and had broken herself open for him. They had talked and talked, and she had wept and been held, had felt a bond with him, an easy comfort she couldn’t explain or understand – and then she’d seen it. Just the bottom third of that inky crest peeking out from beneath his sleeve, but she’d seen it and she’d known, had pushed at the material to reveal the proud lion upon his forearm and her heart had started to pound so hard she could hear it in her ears.

Her soulmate, after all this time, after all this pain, he’d somehow found her again. Now, when she was without her son. Now, when she was paying the ultimate price for all her sordid crimes, for all the blood on her hands, all the lives she’d crushed in pursuit of vengeance against a child (it’s taken her a long time, but she knows now, she sees now, Daniel’s death isn’t on Snow’s head, it’s on her own. Her love is what cost him his life, not the foolish free lips of a child who didn’t know any better). She had known, with certainty, with stark, bright clarity, that if she let Robin linger in her life, she could love him. She would love him, and she would lose him, as she has lost every other love in her life. So she’d pushed him away, all hard words and biting insults, and that tattoo had haunted her. Had whispered things like  _mine_  and  _second chances_  and  _my dream was to love_. He’d been torment.

And always there, always when she needed space. But now, now when she needs  _him_ , when she has only minutes, hardly any time at all to take what she has been dreaming of for months before she forgets that he’s hers, before Zelena’s memory spell strips her soulmate away from her – now she cannot find him.

She moves from a quick, purposeful stride to a jog, not the easiest of feats in her high-heeled boots, but she manages, she has to find him, she has to know what it feels like to be with him before it’s too late. Before she loses him forever (for who knows how long) without ever having let herself love him. (She was right to push him away, she knows that now, because the panic that is clawing at her is nothing compared to what she’d be feeling if she’d fallen for him and had to forget it, if she’d opened herself to love and had to watch, dread-filled, as the curse swelled and stripped away every happy memory of her life with this man.) 

By the time she finds him (or rather, careens into him as she rounds a corner, his hands moving immediately to steady her, gripping her hips, and for once she does not shrug him off), she is panting and dewy with sweat, but she pays it no mind, yanks him through the nearest doorway. It’s a library, old and dusty and relatively unused, and she lights the torches with a flick of her wrist and crushes her mouth to his.

His fingers flex against her hips, and he pulls back, but not so much away, just enough to murmur between kisses, baffled, “Milady – I don’t – what – what’s happ—”

“The curse,” Regina breathes against his mouth, her fingers moving to pluck at the fastenings of his vest. “Zelena changed it - she’s stripped our memories. When it hits, we won’t remember any of this.”

“What?” he asks, a hint of panic in his voice now, too, his hands gripping hers, drawing them away, but she is desperate.

“NO,” she blurts, shaking her hands from his grip. “No, please, I –” She looks at him then, square in those blue, blue eyes she so adores (she’s admitting it now, she can admit it now, now when everything is going to be lost). “I was afraid. I was afraid that I could love you, I was afraid that I could find something like happiness, and I didn’t deserve that, but please, now, before we forget, before I forget you, Robin, let me have this.”

She’s not one who pleads, not one who begs, but she is also not one who has ever been touched by a man who truly cared for her, and she knows, has always known, that deep down Robin  _does_. And she needs this, needs him, needs to know what his touch feels like on her skin, what his kiss feels like against her mouth, what he feels like moving inside her, she needs to know, even if she will only forget. 

She’s not sure what he’s thinking, cannot read it on his face as he looks her up and down, and it’s only her whispered, “We don’t have much time,” that finally spurs him into action. His mouth crashes against hers, suddenly hot and eager, months of frustration and bad blood boiling up and spilling out between them. They careen backward, stumbling until they bump into a solid, old table, and Robin hoists her up onto it, yanking at the fastenings of her coat as his mouth streaks down her neck.

He finds that pulse point that had taken Graham months to discover, even in Storybrooke, and sucks at it, makes her groan and sigh as she fumbles to undress him. And then she can hear it, commotion outside the door, people hollering, people running, and she knows they do not have much time – not enough time for silly things like undressing each other – so she waves her hand and their clothes disappear in a cloud of purple.

Robin blinks, stunned, leans back and takes in the sight of her with a sort of reverent awe, his hands coasting over her belly, down and up and then cupping her breasts, and she’d complain about the slowdown in the action if she wasn’t taking a moment to do the same thing. He’s fit –but she’d known that– well muscled and smooth under her fingertips as the traces his chest, his belly, as they slide down to wrap around him, already hardening for her.

Robin lets out a heavy breath, then tells her, “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in all my years, and I may not remember you after this curse is cast, but I swear that I will dream of you.”

Regina bites her lip, and then bites his, pulling him close again, fusing their mouths, winding her legs around his waist. His hands are on her breasts now, cupping and squeezing gently, and he moans into their desperate kisses, thumbs her nipples, then twists and tugs - hard enough to echo in her belly but not so hard as to hurt, and Regina tips her head back on a moan.

The thief doesn’t miss a beat, simply moves those eager kisses to her neck, licks and nips and sucks hard enough to bruise, but soon there will be nobody to remember how she might have gotten the marks, so she pays it no mind. Not when he is fully hard in her hand now, and thick, God, she’s always cared more for girth than length and Robin fills her grip pleasantly, has her growing warm between the thighs with anticipation.

He is plucking her nipples delightfully, trailing his tongue along her pulse and raising goosebumps in his wake, and she feels the suffocating pressure of not-enough-time. They have to hurry, they only have minutes to go, so she tightens her legs around him, pulls him in even closer, and breathes, “Inside.”

He drops a hand between her thighs, strokes against her and then shakes his head, murmurs, “You need more,” but there is no time for more, doesn’t he understand that?

“We don’t have time for hours of chivalrous foreplay,” she insists, tightening her leg again. “Now.”

He frowns slightly, but acquiesces to her will, taking the necessary step forward to close the gap between them entirely and lining up, pressing slowly into her. He was right, of course, she doesneed more, she’s not nearly wet enough for him to sink in with no resistance, and that girth she so enjoys means that he pushes into her with a twinge of discomfort. She has an immediate and unwelcome flash of Leopold atop her, heavy and fumbling, shoving into her before she was wet enough (she was so rarely able to relax enough to grow wet for him), this same uncomfortable tension night after night. She cannot help the wince the memory calls up in her, and Robin freezes.

“I’m fine,” she breathes, “Keep going.”

But he doesn’t, not right away. He brings a hand between them, thumbs her clit gently in circles, pulls back an inch and then eases back in, and Regina swallows hard and breathes into the uncomfortable tightness, mentally relaxes every muscle in her middle the way she’d learned to do long ago. Robin says her name, a dissatisfied grumble, and she opens the eyes she’d closed, and cants her hips forward slightly, insisting, “I’m used to it.”

But it’s entirely the wrong thing to say, because he stops completely then, his expression shifting to something stony and perturbed. He pulls out, shaking his head, and says, “I won’t have you poorly just because others have,” sinking to his knees and dropping hers over his shoulders, tugging her to the very, very edge of the table. “I’ll have you well, milady, or not at all.”

And then his tongue is on her, licking over her clit in quick, firm laps that have her gasping and biting her lip. A moment later there is a finger pressing against her opening, then easing inside, stroking once, twice, and then he adds a second. They go in much easier than his cock had, and he starts a quick, firm pace in her, begins to suck instead of lick, and  _oh_ , oh, that’s, oh yes…

Her head falls back, her thighs spreading wider for him, and she’s moaning and gasping and spurring him on, the pleasure welcome and intense, but the curse, they don’t have much time, they don’t have much…

“Robin, oh, now, now I’m, oh God, yes, I can, I–” 

She’s babbling, not making much sense at all, but he seems to agree with her, finally, because he stands again, draws his hand away from her and spits onto his fingertips, swipes them against her sex to slick her up even more and then he’s guiding his cock home again, and this time she’s ready - could be  _more_  ready, but is ready enough that his slow re-entry brings only the pleasant stretch of taking something inside her again after so long without, and she exhales her relief, and offers him a small, grateful smile.

He leans in to kiss her, presses their foreheads together as he sinks in fully, until they’re snug against each other, and then he murmurs, “And it didn’t even take hours.”

It takes her a moment to realize what he’s referring to, and then she scoffs, and whaps his arm lightly. He’s mocking her. And grinning now, too. Balls deep inside her, and mocking her for her earlier comment, and it is so like him, and she so likes him, and maybe she  _should_  have done this sooner after all. 

But it’s too late for that now, almost too late to enjoy having him at all if they don’t pick up the pace, so she hikes her knee up his ribs, pleased when he hooks his elbow beneath it, then does the same to the other and begins to pump in and out of her. He starts slow, but it lasts only a moment or two before his pace picks up, becomes quick and forceful, and the angle is  _just right_ , the fit of him  _just right_ , like they’re tailor-made, and she supposes they are, if he’s really meant for her as the pixie dust decreed all those years ago.

“Gods, you feel good,” he mutters, his hands grasping at her skin, his mouth diving for hers again and she kisses back eagerly.

The air goes charged, smells like ozone and raises goosebumps over their skin.

“The curse,” she breathes against his lips, and “Faster,” and he complies, plants one hand at her hip to hold her steady, the other sliding into thrum firmly over her clit as his hips move harder, sharper, the pleasure tightening and tightening in her belly. She cries out again, fights the urge to tip her head back, wants to watch him, wants to memorize his face, the slope of his nose, the blue of his eyes, the stubble of his beard, the way he bites his lip and furrows his brow in concentration. His grunts of pleasure, increasingly loud, mingling with her own moans and quiet shouts, noises that tumble freely from her in a way they haven’t, not in years, and never like this.

She feels heat and tension and bliss, oh god, ecstatic pleasure, and the air is swirling, a breeze from nowhere, it chills the sweat starting to gather on her skin, between her breasts, on her belly. She shivers and pulls him closer, and he growls softly, like he’s frustrated, and then pushes her back, down, until her shoulders are against the dusty table, and he humps into her hard, fast, her thigh in one hand, the other rising to tangle in the ends of her hair. Every thrust drags him roughly over her clit, and that’s it, that’s what she needs, that’s what will finish this, that’s what has her crying out and clutching at his ribs, her hips lurching beneath his, jaw dropping. Orgasm hits her like a tidal wave, a deep, pulling absence and then a rush all at once, swamping her with pleasure, scrunching her torso, clenching her fingers against his skin as she cries out.

He drops his head to her shoulder and fucks her harder, harder still, then lets out a great, relieved groan as he stiffens and spills into her.

Breath heaving, limbs trembling, she lifts his head up to meet his gaze. They’re both hazy with afterglow, sweaty and sated, and oh, she should have done this sooner. His fingers rise to her brow, brush tousled locks back from her temple, and then he kisses her softly. Tenderly. Regina lets herself sink, lets herself kiss and be kissed, lets herself revel for just a moment in the gentle touch of a lover. So this is what it feels like…

With a splintering bang, the door of the library rattles and breaks apart, and the room fills with fog, green and purple, a swirling dervish of it that sends books flying off shelves and stacks rattling against the walls.

She should feel frightened, she thinks. Or nervous, at least, but she doesn’t. She feels **safe** here, with him, she realizes with a lurch of her heart.

“I’m sorry I waited so long,” she whispers to him, and despite the roaring wind that whips at them now, he hears her, shakes his head.

“There’s still time,” he assures. “We’ll find each other in this new land, and you’ll be as maddeningly irresistible as always.”

She smiles at that, then grins, then chuckles, and he laughs softly himself, drops his brow to hers. A window shatters somewhere further in the room and Robin’s elbows shift at her side, his body shielding hers more fully. Protecting her, she thinks, and she clutches him more tightly, presses her face into his neck and breathes in the scent of forest for the last time as the curse cloud roils thickly around them.

Regina wakes in her bed, the weak sun of a wintry Maine morning filtering in through her curtains, silk-clad and burrowed beneath thick down. She shifts with a sigh, finds herself warm and wet, slippery between the thighs and utterly relaxed.

She’s dreamt of him again - the man with the lion tattoo, the one that irritating fairy led her to decades ago. He’s haunted her ever since, visited her in dreams, faceless and nameless, a fantasy lover who knows all the right places to kiss and to touch. She remembers the dream only in patches this time, remembers the soft stubble of his beard between her thighs, the wet slide of his tongue against her neck. She remembers the scent of old paper, and pine. And nothing more.

But it was a good dream – must have been  _very_  good if the post-orgasmic liquidy feeling of her muscles is any indication – so she keeps her eyes closed, presses her thighs tightly together, tries to grasp at the lingering tendrils of pleasure.

It’s several minutes of sleepy bliss before she remembers that all of this is wrong.

She shouldn’t be in Storybrooke, she should be back in the Forest, with all of the others, and without–

Regina’s eyes snap open, her heart clenching hard with panicked grief.

Henry.

She’s lost Henry. 

Something went wrong, they’re still here, and she’s sent Henry over the town line with no memory of her.

 

Heart in her throat, tears in her eyes, she pushes away the thought of her fantasy missed-chance lover and rises from bed.


End file.
